Eins! Zwei! Drei!
by smuttyandabsurd
Summary: England doth protest too much as a reluctant voyeur to France and Germany's play. England France/Germany.
**Eins! Zwei! Drei!**

England tapped out the last cigarette from a packet of sixteen and sighed.

He had gotten the cigarettes on an impulse earlier that day, right out of a vending machine in the lobby (with the sixteen-pack being the smallest available), and he was mildly scandalised at the rate they were being smoked. He paused for a moment, balancing the unlit stick in a familiar, almost comforting heft between forefingers. Then, shrugging, he stuck it in his mouth.

"Might pop out for a bit," he mumbled around the cigarette. As he lit up, he took a deep drag, held the smoke in his lungs for long enough to finish balling up the empty packet, then slowly exhaled. Smoke streamed thinly from between his pursed lips. "You two want anything?"

"Only your company, sweet robin," France purred.

The Frenchman was sitting half naked at the foot of the bed, his hand gently massaging a pair of buttocks draped over his lap. Then, abruptly, he gave it a smack. Germany let out a deep guttural groan that was not entirely without pleasure.

England issued a noncommittal grunt. _Three's a crowd_ , he thought as he sucked some more on his smoke.

"Oh," France said, his hand resting lightly on Germany's spank-reddened rear. "I did not count that one, did I? To think I have lost count…"

Germany's body visibly tensed at those words, and a shiver broke so the links on his handcuffs clinked together. A red ball gag prevented him from responding to France's suggestions that they start over (England rolled his eyes at the theatrics), but his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed in anticipation.

The first blow landed with a hard, fleshy _smack_.

"Eins!" France began.

Another _smack_.

"Zwei!" France's accent was thick.

 _Smack_. _Smack_. _Smack_.

"Drei! Vier! Fünf!" France was practically roaring at this point, his voice bouncing off the walls. England made a show of clapping his hands over his ears.

A total of twenty-eight spanks – "Achtundzwanzig!" – landed on Germany's rear; one for each member of the European Union, of course. England rolled his eyes even more violently at that. Both nations paused to recover their breaths. Then, slowly, Germany slid off France's lap and pooled onto the floor, resting his head wearily against France's knee. He stared dazedly across the room at England, his blue eyes half-lidded and clouded with desire.

In spite of himself, England found that he was gazing longingly back, entranced by Germany's naked display of taut heaving muscles. His eyes darted all over, slowly travelling down the length of Germany's pale body, from his chest and pert pink nipples, to his chiselled abdomen lined with a light fuzz of hair, trailing down to a large swollen cock that was flushed with arousal.

England stared for a long, hungry moment between Germany's legs, before suddenly catching himself and tearing his eyes away, flushing with embarrassment.

"Like what you see?" France teased.

England turned in his chair and folded his arm over his own rapidly developing hard-on.

"Won't you join us, pet?" France called again, his hand combing through Germany's sweat-slicked hair. Germany closed his eyes at France's touch.

For a moment, England considered forgoing his pride and accepting the invitation. He imagined himself toeing out of his shoes and padding over towards the bed, unknotting his tie and loosening his shirt cuffs as he did. He would kneel down to Germany's level, reach out to unclasp that ball gag, watch as saliva trickled out of his mouth, and lean in to kiss those reddened lips. He would slide his hands down Germany's chest, and he imagined the skin to feel soft and smooth over those wiry muscles, the nipples to be hard little nubs to toy with his fingers…

England's trousers were getting uncomfortably tight. And in the midst of his fevered reverie, he had begun palming himself between his legs in a futile attempt at relief.

"Oh _fuck_ this!" he growled, forcing his hand to stop.

"Is something the matter?" France asked in a decidedly irritating and smug tone of voice.

England's only answer was to ground out the stub of his cigarette with slightly more force than was necessary in the ashtray provided. Then, pretending that it wasn't hurting him to do so (god was he _hard_ ), he rose to his feet and stomped towards the exit, grabbing his jacket as he went.

"Going to get some air," he muttered sullenly before slamming the door behind him.


End file.
